


count your blessings

by OverTheMoonShine



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Divergence, M/M, enemies to friends to ????, fukuroudani second-year bokuto, one sided rivals to lovers, suzumeoka first-year akaashi, the idle fleeting thought that he was a “star” crossed my mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29759277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverTheMoonShine/pseuds/OverTheMoonShine
Summary: Who even has silver hair?is the ungracious thought that pops up first in Akaashi’s mind,What sort of school would allow their students to dye their hair such ridiculous colours?It turns out, Akaashi still has much to learn about volleyball.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	count your blessings

“Hey hey hey!” the spiker all but shouts from across the other side of the net, his voice as domineering as the strength of his spike. The ball rebounds against the gymnasium floor, bounces _once, twice,_ Akaashi counts, before the referee’s whistle cuts through the air, signalling the end of the game. _Thrice,_ the ball comes to a stop, just shy of where his coach is sitting. 

The spiker pumps both fists up in the air, and runs straight into his team-mates, literally barreling some of them onto the ground. Even amongst the group, his voice rings the loudest, full of the adrenaline that’s still rushing through Akaashi’s veins, all pent up with nowhere else to go. _Who even has silver hair?_ is the ungracious thought that pops up first in Akaashi’s mind, _What sort of school would allow their students to dye their hair such ridiculous colours?_

On his end of the court, his captain turns away. “Come on,” he calls, voice shaking the slightest bit. A third-year whose journey has been cut to a cruel end, barely two matches into the Interhigh. Even though the curve of his shoulders say otherwise, his captain gathers the team, “Let’s clear the court for the next game.”

The team files off the court, and Akaashi follows, the sing-song cheer of the spiker still echoing in his ears.

⸻

Akaashi’s in the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face in an effort to calm his still racing heart, when a voice calls out from behind him, “Hey! You’re the setter from just now, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t have to turn around to know who it is. It’s literally impossible to forget the owner of the voice, after experiencing three sets worth of his attacks, both aural and physical. Akaashi pauses for a second, still hunched over the sink, fingers pressed to his eyes, and wonders if he can play it off as having not heard the question. While it may run counter to the manners his parents have drilled into his soul, he thinks they’d side with him on this transgression, just once.

The voice continues, clearly comfortable with carrying on a one-sided conversation, now floating over from slightly to his side, like he’s moved over, “It was a pretty fun game, huh!” Based on his energy on court, Akaashi should have expected this, even as he still stubbornly refuses to turn.

From the left, Akaashi hears the sound of water running in the sink beside him, the voice now humming tunelessly, apparently unbothered by Akaashi’s lack of reaction. There’s a slight squeak of the tap as the water’s turned off. Akaashi’s back is starting to ache from the amount of time he’s spent leaning over the sink, but he’s determined to wait the voice out before giving him the satisfaction of being acknowledged.

“Well, I had fun at least,” the voice says, still beside him. There’s a gentle sound of _pat pat pat,_ as if he’s drying his hands off on his pants. Then, as if it’s a perfectly acceptable thing to say to what most would consider a complete stranger, the voice continues, “You didn’t look like you were having any fun though.”

Akaashi straightens up so quickly that his back cracks, protesting at the sudden movement. He looks the owner of the voice straight in the eye, feels his toes curl with annoyance at how bright his silver hair is up close, and says, with more venom than he’d intended, “And you looked like you were having too much fun.”

The spiker blinks, as if trying to comprehend what Akaashi’s reply. He cocks to his head to the side, eyes all wide like an owl, then answers, more thoughtfully than his impulsive demeanour would ever suggest him being capable of, “Huh, I never thought there was such a thing as too much fun, especially not for volleyball.”

Then before Akaashi can formulate a response, he shrugs, “Anyway, I gotta go. See ya around!” He offers Akaashi a big smile that unfortunately looks genuine in affection, before he leaves the bathroom.

The door slams shut loudly, as if a hurricane had blown through. Something curdles in Akaashi’s stomach. It takes a few moments before his hands stop shaking - with what emotion though, he’s not exactly sure.

⸻

“How did your match go today?” 

Akaashi looks up at his mother, surprised that she had remembered. She’s not looking at him, gaze fixed on the dinner in front of her. Opposite her, his father continues eating his dinner, making neat scoops of his rice before spooning it into his mouth. It’s a rare evening in which the three of them had somehow coincided for a meal together.

“We lost,” the words are sour in Akaashi’s mouth. He doesn’t feel as hungry anymore. In the kitchen, just barely out of sight, hangs the usually ignored family calendar, in which he had foolishly marked down the match days for the Interhigh, up till finals. 

“I see,” his mother pauses. Akaashi wonders if it’s too much to expect some form of consolation. She continues, not maliciously, almost kindly, “I hope you’re not too upset over it. It is, after all, just a club activity.”

“Yes,” Akaashi’s reply is automatic, although he’s not quite sure which statement of his mother’s he’s agreeing with. Maybe the former, maybe both. Upset is perhaps too strong a word to describe the emotion he’s feeling, especially now, when he’s here in the fluorescent lighting of his dining room table, so far removed from the sweaty, warm atmosphere of the court.

“Good.” Her smile is distant, the same way the last bounce of the volleyball sounds just as it loses momentum and comes to a stop. The score had been 27 - 25 in the last set. Akaashi hadn’t been the last person to touch the ball, but he had sent over a weak toss that laid the foundations of their defeat. “There is little reason to be dismayed over it.”

“It’s enough to be on the team, especially as a first-year,” his father makes his first contribution to the conversation the entire dinner. “That would look good on your university applications.”

“You don’t have a lot of time left, Keiji,” his mother echoes, “to be spending it on activities that aren’t for your future.”

“I understand,” Akaashi says. “That was our last match of this semester.”

“A club is just a club,” says one of his parents. Akaashi listens to their words as if through a wind-tunnel, his blood is roaring in his ears. He places the chopsticks on his bowl, wipes his palms that are beginning to sweat against the side of his pants. They continue, “No need to be too emotionally invested. It’s just a bit of fun.”

(Akaashi doesn’t remember what he dreams about.

Only wakes up with the vaguest sense of glowing owl eyes and the strongest urge to fly. It is a foolish dream, he is, after all, just a boy, curled up in his bed. A member of a losing team.)

⸻

It turns out “See ya around!” was not just mere conversational pleasantry but a curse. Because there Akaashi is, in one of his favourite bookshops, wallet fat with the allowance he’s saved up to buy not just one but _two_ books on what had initially seemed like it would be a good day when -

“You’re the setter!” calls a voice from behind him, and Akaashi freezes as his stomach plummets with all the gravitational force of a heavy stone hurtling straight towards the ground. 

“Hello - “ Akaashi pauses, he never did get the spiker’s name. 

As if finally realising this social gaffe as well, the spiker guffaws. He points a thumb at himself, posing like a protagonist-hero in a shounen manga, “I’m Bokuto.”

“Akaashi Keiji.”

Satisfied, Bokuto leans in, eyes going wide with amazement at the number of books Akaashi has tucked under his arm. He may or may not have had gotten a bit carried away while attempting to decide on what to purchase. “Wow, are you gonna buy all those books?” asks Bokuto, amazement clear in his question.

Akaashi looks down at the pile he’s amassed. It’ll be next to impossible to choose just two to take home with him. If only money were infinite, and his bookshelves stretched onto eternity, a pang of wistfulness strikes Akaashi.

Before he can reply though, Bokuto continues, “Do you think you could help me find one too?”

Akaashi wants to say _no, why don’t you ask the actual bookstore owner to help you instead_ , but what comes out of his mouth is, “Sure.”

“Great!” Bokuto brightens instantly, although he’d looked entirely confident that Akaashi would have agreed anyway. “I know we can just look stuff up online, but sometimes it’s easier to understand if you’ve something in your hands, you know?” Bokuto looks slightly sheepish saying this, like he’s expecting to be admonished for what he’s just said. 

It’s not like Akaashi would have disagreed, books are one of humanity’s finest inventions, in his humble opinion.

“Okay! Lead the way, Akaashi,” Bokuto’s expression is expectant, sheepish mood all gone. Akaashi gets the sense that if Bokuto had been a dog, he’d be wagging his tail, ready to be taken out on a walk, leash grasped between his teeth. 

“You haven’t mentioned what you wanted to find.”

“Oh, right,” Bokuto laughs, entirely unembarrassed by his blunder. “I want to get one on nutrition for athletes, and another on conditioning exercises.”

Once again, proving his ability to carry out one-sided conversations, Bokuto continues, with a self-satisfied air, “I’m going to be a pro-athlete one day, see, so it’s important to know these things.” It should be annoying the way he says this, but the sincerity of his statement blunts the almost pompous nature of his words. 

There’s something akin to surprise that flickers across Akaashi’s mind, that Bokuto would share something as personal as an ambition with him, and that he’s so serious about the sport. He hadn’t expected that, had thought the spiker more full of air and bloated confidence rather than solid plans and tangible goals. 

“You really love volleyball,” Akaashi says, his question coming out as a factual statement instead. 

“Yea!” Bokuto chirps, and once again, Akaashi is reminded of a dog, tail wagging, chasing after a butterfly. He turns to Akaashi, face shining, “Don’t you?”

“I like it enough.”

Bokuto laughs, a sound that rumbles through Akaashi’s chest. He doesn’t like the feeling, but doesn’t dislike it either, and it triggers the distinct brand of annoyance that Akaashi’s now come to associate with Bokuto, even after such limited interaction, “I can tell, from the way you play.”

Akaashi’s not quite sure how he should reply, so he doesn’t.

“I don’t mean it in a mean way!” Bokuto jumps in, mouth pulled downwards as he waves his hands like he’s trying to clear the words from the air. He thinks for a moment, his forehead creased in exaggerated thought, “You just play like you’re studying for an exam you’re going to pass - hmm, no, like for an exam you’re going to do well in. I bet you’re a top student, aren’t you? You look really smart.”

Akaashi doesn’t know if this is meant to be an insult or a compliment, but is spared the effort of deciding when Bokuto lets out a pleased sound as he finds a book that looks like it fits what he’s been looking for. It’s amazing, honestly, the emotional journey that Bokuto has gone through in the twenty minutes that they’ve met.

He continues, chattering on, says as if it’s a secret - and if so, Akaashi doesn’t know why he’s sharing it with him, “I’m not a very good student. They make exams too boring, you know?”

Bokuto continues the conversation with minimal input from Akaashi, all the way till they’re at the bookstore counter. It’s only when the cashier is looking at him meaningfully that Akaashi realises he hasn’t decided on what to buy yet, and blindly chooses two books from his stack at random. 

“If you’ve nothing else to do,” Bokuto asks, “wanna hang out for a bit more?”

Once again, Akaashi means to say no, but “Okay” slips out of his mouth instead, and Bokuto grins. “Great, I’ve the best idea! Just follow me.”

⸻

Bokuto’s _best idea_ turns out to be running to a nearby park to play volleyball. Akaashi finds that he isn’t even surprised by the turn of events, volleyball is, after all, the only connecting thread between the two of them.

“I come here sometimes by myself,” Bokuto confesses, seemingly producing a volleyball out of nowhere. The park has two volleyball courts, with games already on-going on both courts. The players look around their age, possibly a little older. Akaashi is ready to make excuses on how _he should be getting home now_ since it’s not like they can play anyway, but Bokuto confidently makes his way towards the court, “Let’s see if they’ll let us join them!”

Akaashi stands on the sidelines, fingers twisted together, evidently shouldering the nerves for both of them, when Bokuto strides up to one of the players in the court, after the players stop for a break. Bokuto’s voice is loud and booming, and Akaashi catches snippets of Bokuto’s animated introduction, “.... we both play at high school … I’m the ace … no, really, I’m not joking … he’s a setter, yea he’s really good! … your shirt is really cool …” It’s another five minutes of rambling conversation before Bokuto turns around and waves Akaashi over, “C’mon, let’s play!”

It’s too late to back out now, not with the way Bokuto’s grinning so widely Akaashi is sure his cheeks would be aching tomorrow. Even so, his feet feel like lead as he makes his way over to the group of players. There are four of them, and their names fall out of Akaashi’s head right after they’ve introduced themselves. “This is Akaashi,” Bokuto says, after Akaashi stumbles through his own introduction. “Don’t be fooled by him, he’s a really tricky setter!”

Akaashi frowns at this, and all Bokuto does is laugh to himself and pat Akaashi on the back. “You still beat us,” Akaashi points out quietly, unable to help the self-pitying snipe. 

“That doesn’t mean that you weren’t good,” Bokuto says simply, like it’s an obvious fact. He turns away to high-five their new teammate, missing the way Akaashi’s frown deepens.

There’s little time to dwell on this, however, because Bokuto’s already shouting for the match to begin. The remaining three players on the other end of the court gesture an _okay okay_ , shuffling into their own positions as well. The ball is on the opposite end of the court, and their server bounces the ball a few times against the floor.

“Gimme good tosses alright, Akaashi?” Bokuto calls over from his side of the court. He licks his lips, then crouches down into position to receive the ball. It’s like there’s a shift in the air, a _readiness_ that Bokuto exudes, as if this were a real competition rather than a friendly three-on-three with strangers in the park.

From the other end of the net, the server - what _was_ his name again? Akaashi files his lapse in manners away for later analysis - shouts a, “Let’s go!” then tosses the ball up in the air, and sends over an unexpectedly strong serve. It barely fazes Bokuto though, who receives the serve cleanly, in a manner befitting a player of a team destined for the Nationals-stage. Akaashi has little time to admire his form, as the ball sails towards the front of the net, where he’s already positioned himself.

Two options: the third player on their team (Ryouma or something, Akaashi is only half sure) or Bokuto, who’s already up in the air, arm drawn backwards in anticipation of the ball. The choice is easy and Akaashi sends the ball back to Bokuto, who slams his hand downwards, and smashes the ball down into the opposite court.

The spike is eerily similar to the attack that had ended Suzumeoka’s dreams at Interhigh. It feels good, traitorously good, to be on this side of the net. A shot of adrenaline and excitement rushes through Akaashi’s veins, tearing its way through his limbs in search of an outlet. He turns to Bokuto, eyes wide.

“Hey hey hey!” cheers Bokuto, raising both hands up to Akaashi and Akaashi’s mouth is wide open in a soundless cheer as he high-fives Bokuto with more force than he’d meant to. Their hands slap against each other with a palm-reddening force, but Akaashi barely feels the sting.

Playing with Bokuto is easier than it seems. 

His cheery mood is infectious, so excitable that it buoys everyone else up with him, even the people on the other end of the court. Despite them dominating most of the game, the atmosphere remains light-hearted and jovial. Akaashi wonders if Bokuto had had the same effect during the Interhigh, if that’s why despite losing, the third-years had recounted the match with a satisfied kind of air the next day. _At least we went out on a match like that_ , his captain had concluded, with a grim, pleased smile. If so, Akaashi wonders how he’d missed the magnetic pull of Bokuto’s effervescence during their match. How his main take-away had been the annoying brightness of Bokuto’s hair and the volume of his cheers.

“I thought you said you hadn’t played together before,” comments one of the players, after the two manage to pull off another quick.

Bokuto just laughs easily, “Told you Akaashi was good!” as if he weren’t 90% of the reason for why their attacks are successful. As if he weren’t the one the entire court revolved around. It’s just a matter of passing Bokuto the ball, and letting him take over the rest.

They play some more - the evening air is cool around Akaashi’s ankles.

“There it is ‘Kaashi!” Bokuto cheers suddenly, at the end of the fourth match. He’s panting heavily, sweat pouring off his face, but his eyes are flashing with excitement. “It’s more fun when it’s not just an exam, isn’t it?”

Akaashi doesn’t say anything, but the smile on his face is answer enough.

⸻

Bokuto offers to walk Akaashi home, after he realises that they stay just three streets away from each other. “You should give me your number too, since we’re neighbours,” is what Bokuto says, when they finally reach Akaashi’s door-step. It’s evening by now, the light of the street-lamps casting long shadows on the road behind them.

“We’re technically not neighbours,” Akaashi points out, but types down the numbers that Bokuto is rattling off and saves them in his phone nevertheless. 

It’s impossible to avoid sending Bokuto a friend request on Line, not with the way the spiker is peering over his shoulder, making a disgruntled noise when Akaashi saves his contact under a practical ‘Bokuto Koutarou’ instead of Bokuto’s recommendation of “NO 1 ACE SPIKER”.

Bokuto’s message comes much later than Akaashi thought it would, his phone beeping just as he’s about to turn in for the night:

 **Bokuto Koutarou  
** let’s play again!!!!!

Akaashi ignores the text. 

His muscles are sore with the exertion from the afternoon’s game. Shifting a little so that he’s more comfortable, Akaashi closes his eyes, trying to remember what exactly it was about Bokuto that had infuriated him the first time they met.

⸻

“It’s good that our schools have training on the same days,” Bokuto says, one day when they’re doing partner drills with each other, on the wide side-walks just outside of Akaashi’s house. “That way, we can practice together on the other days when we don’t have training.” 

They have fallen into a pattern, kind of. It’s hard to deny Bokuto the attention he’s seeking, especially with the way he’s a serial repeat texter, with no qualms about sending as many messages it takes to get a reply. Akaashi’s resolve and determination apparently only extend to ensuring his grades remain a steady A+, given how readily he crumbles whenever Bokuto asks if he’s free - which ends up being more often than he had thought, considering how sociable Bokuto seems to be. 

_Don’t you have someone else you want to do this with?_ is the thought that crosses Akaashi’s mind, when Bokuto texts him on the first Sunday after their bookstore encounter, asking, _aaaaaakaaashiiiiiii!!! shall we go try yakitori today?_ His fingers must have been magnetically attracted to the characters on his phone, because Akaashi types out _okay_ before his brain can catch up. Inevitably, the yakitori outing ends up at the park, where Bokuto once again pulls Akaashi into a match with a couple of other strangers. 

It’s _not_ hard to evolve from this to catching up almost daily after school, Bokuto bounding over to Akaashi’s house whenever he’s done for the day, calling out, “Akaashi, want to hang out?” The enthusiasm, is perhaps, chalked up to the fact that, “I never had a friend who just lived next door to me before. Isn’t it very exciting?”

“I suppose,” Akaashi’s dead-pan reply does nothing to dampen Bokuto’s glee, as he throws his head backwards and laughs, before launching into a tale about lunch that day, as if he hadn’t already live-texted Akaashi about it already.

Today is yet, one of those other days, where Bokuto - having already quickly memorised Akaashi’s schedule, in the short two weeks that their friendship (the word gives Akaashi pause) had taken root in - has coerced Akaashi into practicing with him.

“Bokuto-san, we both had our own school trainings today,” Akaashi points out. It’s 8pm on a school night, and they’re both in their school uniform, the elbows of their uniform jackets crumpled from their movement. Akaashi has a ton of homework that he hasn’t started on. “If we wanted extra practice, outside of school, playing tomorrow would have made more sense.”

“Oh yea,” Bokuto hums, although doesn’t seem very concerned, “It’s lucky we had training today then, so we’re warmed up already.” 

Even though he’s aching everywhere from training earlier today, the ball feels gentle against Akaashi’s arms, as he bumps it back over to Bokuto. “Yes, it is indeed lucky,” Akaashi agrees. 

Bokuto smiles at him, pleased; and Akaashi misses the ball that Bokuto’s just returned. It bounces on the tarmac, _once twice_ _thrice_ , each thud communicating an emotion he finds he rather not consider. After all, correlation doesn’t mean causality - a principle he’s sure he would be more familiar with, if he had spent the time finishing his science homework, rather than being out here, playing volleyball with someone from a rival volleyball team.

No - not even a _rival_ team, Fukurodani had crushed them easily. Rival would be too generous a word.

“Hey Akaashi,” calls Bokuto, running over to pick up the ball, where it’s rolled off into some bushes. His silver hair catches the light from the street-lamps; looking for the briefest moment, like he’s glowing, shining in the way people destined for greatness do. He says, more a statement than a request, “One more ball?”

Akaashi obliges.

⸻

“Wow Akaashi, have you been having some secret training recently?” asks one of the second-years, a lanky middle-blocker by the name of Shinnosuke. “Your tosses have gotten a lot sharper, like you’re really directing me to places.”

Akaashi’s ears redden. 

Honestly, it’s not like he’d meant to keep his dalliances with Bokuto a secret, it just seemed odd to ever bring up, but he hadn’t expected it to have had an impact on his regular real-life training. Even though Shinnosuke had been laughing, it’s also entirely possible that the statement had been a complaint disguised as a joke. Akaashi opens his mouth to possibly apologise, but the second year cuts in before he can get a word out.

“It’s nice to see that you’re worrying less when you play,” there’s a fondness in Shinnosuke’s eyes, like a parent who’s just realised that their child is growing up. 

It had just been the previous Sunday, when Bokuto and Akaashi had ended up at their usual spot, all ready to take on a new set of volleyball challengers. Just like the four Sundays before, Akaashi fell easily into Bokuto’s rhythm, had even indulged in trying out new ways of sending the ball up, faster, quicker, higher. Little tweaks just to see how far, how high Bokuto could fly.

“Akaashi,” Bokuto had turned to him, at the end of the last match, mouth wide in that perennial grin of his. Akaashi attributed the swooping sensation in his stomach to the lack of food, particularly after three hours of solid games. “Your sets are fun!”

“I’m sure your own setter is able to send you better tosses,” Akaashi had answered, the words leaving his mouth with a harsher bite of jealousy than necessary. 

“Anahori’s tosses are fun too,” the hard edges of his words rolled off Bokuto. “There’s no such thing as too much fun, Akaashi, I thought you’d have learnt that by now. It’s okay, I don’t mind having to keep teaching you this, I’m so generous aren’t I?”

“You need to watch your power on the straights,” is what Akaashi had said in return, “You’re overcompensating for accuracy.” 

“Guess we just need to practice more then!”

In the present, where Akaashi’s shirt is soaked with sweat from training with his school team, the tension releases from Akaashi’s shoulders. 

“You look like you’re really enjoying volleyball a lot more nowadays,” Shinnosuke smiles at him, and gives him a thumbs up.

It’s not a lie when Akaashi says, quietly, almost like a secret, “Yes, I really am.”

⸻

It is testament to Bokuto’s tact that he doesn’t mention what he’s busy with on Saturdays, but the truth is a looming beast, and Akaashi’s eyes are wide open. The dates of the Interhigh matches marked out in confident circles on his kitchen calendar still mock him. He should get a new calendar. Each time he walks by to get a glass of water, the red circles bore into him, like zeroes reminding him of how little his team had achieved. 

Still, it comes as a surprise when one day, just as they’re ending their impromptu training session, on the sidewalks outside of Bokuto’s house this time, Bokuto blurts out, “Will you come watch us?” 

Bokuto doesn’t need to explain. In the dim evening light, his golden eyes are shining, two medallions glimmering in the dusky air. Then his gaze drops down, his foot twists on the ground. Nervousness is a funny emotion to see on Bokuto. He doesn’t wear it well.

Akaashi recalls briefly, the bitter taste of defeat. The way Bokuto’s ball had slammed callously into his court. There is a lump in his throat, _traitor,_ it whispers, but Akaashi swallows it down and finds that it tastes like nothing, really, “If I’ve nothing else to do that day.”

“Sounds good, Akaashi!” cheers Bokuto, his glowing eyes darting back up to meet Akaashi. For a moment, all the air in his lungs is extinguished, the oxygen burnt up in the heat of Bokuto’s gaze. It passes, as Bokuto sings his promise, “I’ll save you the best seat!” 

⸻

 **To: Bokuto Koutarou** **  
**Good luck today

 **Bokuto Koutarou** **  
**we don’t need luck!!!  
but thank you akaashi!!!!

Fukuroudani takes the first set easily, effortlessly. Barely any time passes between Akaashi finding his seat (Akaashi had turned down Bokuto’s offer of _the best seat_ , since it’d meant sitting in the Fukuroudani cheering section) and the referee’s whistle calls for the end of the first set.

They start strong in the second set - predators sensing that they’ve cornered their prey and ready to pounce. Bokuto flies through the air like he’s weightless, slamming each toss into the opponent’s court with a strength that would rival any pro-athlete. He’s exuberant and cheerful, basking in the limelight of the Finals spotlight, and Fukuroudani is lifted up in his excitement. He pumps both fists up in the air with each point scored, yelling _hey hey hey!_ and it doesn’t sound as grating on the ears as it did, all those matches ago.

“I played with _that_ ,” Akaashi mutters, then only realises that he’s said it out loud when the people beside him give him an odd look. He flushes, and turns his attention back to the court, where Bokuto’s high in the air again, form perfect. 

It would be natural if Akaashi had felt some sense of jealousy at how easy Bokuto made volleyball look. Here is where you jump, here is where the ball flies to your hand, here is where you slam it down, here is where you win. Yet, all that’s glowing warm in Akaashi’s chest is pride and admiration. The overwhelming sense of gratitude that he’s got to play with someone like Bokuto, a person undeniably poised for stardom. “ _I_ played with that,” he whispers again to himself, the realisation running like magic through him, as Bokuto succeeds on yet another spike, a shot that tears through a wall of defenders making them look more like little weeds waving in the air.

Up here in the bleachers, the shockwave as the ball ricochets off the ground below reaches Akaashi. It should be terrifying to be on court against them, something that Akaashi knows bitterly well. But instead of crumbling, Fukuroudani’s opponents - Kawahori High School - smile, the crooked kind where you bare your teeth and find satisfaction even when your body’s screaming otherwise.

It’s like a switch has been flipped, and they fight back. Their captain sends over a strong serve that flies off the arms of Fukuroudani’s libero; their setter executes a smooth setter dump, that even has Akaashi applauding before he catches himself. Their score creeps upwards, like a vine coiling, strangling a large oak tree, until they meet Fukuroudani as equals at 24 - 24.

Akaashi’s heart is in his throat. 

“Akaashi, give me some exam tips,” he recalls Bokuto asking him once, after a particularly difficult game on Sunday. It was in that session where he’d witnessed Bokuto slipping for the first time, dark clouds suddenly settling in to block out his light. It had taken half a set before Bokuto regained his momentum again, only after he’d succeeded in doing a personal time-difference attack, sending the ball flying unencumbered to the other side. “Sometimes I get too frustrated when the questions are hard.”

“Well, you studied well for the examination, didn’t you?” Akaashi had answered, and Bokuto nodded, still glum. “Then the answers will come to you either way. You just need to tackle the questions you can do first.”

In the present, tiny Bokuto, down on the orange court, so very far away, has his mouth set in a grim line. Akaashi’s palms are sweaty, and he feels the wild need to race down to the court, just to be closer to the game.

Then, Bokuto raises his arms in the air and shouts, in a manner that’s both cheery and threatening, “Let’s go go go! The easiest answers first!” The other Fukuroudani players on court turn to look at him, then burst out into laughter, slapping Bokuto on his back, high-fiving each other, ready to receive the ball once again.

The spell is broken. Emboldened by Bokuto’s questionable war-cry, Fukuroudani surges ahead. They are a blur of white-black-and-gold, a well-oiled machine fuelled by the sheer hours they’ve spent on court, the blood, sweat and tears shed in pursuit of being greater than themselves.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Bokuto who delivers the final blow. 

Akaashi jumps to his feet, clapping his hands together so hard he knows they’re sure to be bright red later, shouting out his congratulations. 

⸻

 **Bokuto Koutarou** **  
**we’re at section 7!!!!!!

 **To: Bokuto Koutarou** **  
**Okay

Akaashi stops a few steps away before he reaches section 7, to give himself a few moments to calm his breathing. It takes a few deep breaths before it stops being obvious that he’s all but sprinted over after receiving Bokuto’s text. He hears Bokuto before he sees him, the older boy’s voice carrying over the noise of the crowd, booming in its happiness. It gives Akaashi the slightest pause - he’s not exactly sure how to make his presence known, particularly since Bokuto would be the rest of Fukuroudani, and would it not be weird if he’d materialised out of nowhere, a stranger in the midst of their celebration.

His hesitation is all for naught because before he can decide on the best course of action, Bokuto’s voice reverberates through the air, “AKAASHI!” He bounds over, the ground trembling with the excitement and happiness in each step. With a large grin, he lands in front of Akaashi, breaths out in wonder like it’s something that’s just occurred to him, “You’re here!”

Akaashi can’t help the tiny smile that tilts the corners of his lips upwards, “I told you I would, didn’t I?”

“Did ya watch the whole thing?” Bokuto asks, lifting up on his tip-toes as if he’s too full of energy. He hops from left to right as he launches into a blow-by-blow replay of the entire match - in Akaashi’s humble opinion, he’d taken some liberties with exaggerating some portions of the match, but who is he to deny Bokuto his satisfaction? “And in the last set, did you see me do that insane cut shot? I didn’t think it’d make it in, but we did!” Bokuto guffaws, proud, his hands on his hips.

“Maybe if you’d saved some of your energy by not shouting _Hey hey hey_ , it would give your spikes more power,” Akaashi teases.

The comment barely fazes Bokuto, as he demands, with the gusto of a scientist pronouncing a new law of nature, “Shouting gives my spikes their power!”

“If you say so, Bokuto-san.”

They lapse into silence, not uncomfortable, not exactly. The sounds of the crowd - both spectators excitedly discussing the matches and players going over their performances - wash over them. 

Then Bokuto speaks up, “Hey, Akaashi?”

Just like before, there’s hesitation in his actions. He chews on his bottom lip, his hair droops down just the slightest bit along with the sudden dip in his mood, “Would you want to come and watch our matches at Nationals too?”

“Of course, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi doesn’t even need to take a moment to think. He’s sure he would have offered if Bokuto hadn’t invited him anyway, though that doesn’t stop his cheeks from turning a light shade of pink, as he adds on, “I’ll definitely be there.”

It’s not an exaggeration to say that Bokuto explodes with happiness, the way his hair shoots straight up into perfect spikes again, “Okay okay Akaashi, I’ll see you there!” His head bobs up and down in vigorous nods, and Akaashi doesn’t know how to break the news to him that he’s still planning on meeting Bokuto and hanging out with him many, many times in between now till Nationals. 

“Bokuto, get over here!” calls a harried voice from behind them. “Did you get lost again?” The exasperation is clear in the person’s tone. Bokuto’s expression melts into something slightly apologetic.

“I gotta go, Akaashi,” Bokuto says, half guilty. With a parting wave and a “We’ll meet again at Nationals!”, Bokuto turns to sprint back to his teammates, yelling, “I’m coming! Don’t let the bus leave without me.” The desperation in Bokuto’s tone seems to imply that this may or may not have happened once, and Akaashi has to hold back a chuckle.

His phone buzzes just a second later.

 **Bokuto Koutarou** **  
**wanna play tmr?????

 **To: Bokuto Koutarou** **  
**You just won a competition today  
Don’t you want to celebrate?

 **Bokuto Koutarou** **  
**yea!!!!  
that’s how we’re gonna celebrate!!!!!!   
i’ll meet u @ 2pm?

 **To: Bokuto Koutarou** **  
**Okay

 **Bokuto Koutarou** **  
**okay!!!!!!  
see you!!!!!!!   
i can’t waittttttt!!!!!!

 **To: Bokuto Koutarou** **  
**Me too  
See you tomorrow

Akaashi pockets his phone with an exasperated smile. 

A stray thought crosses his mind, one that’s been slowly taking form over the past few weeks. It’s an undeniable, shining truth: volleyball is truly very, very fun.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, and i'd love to hear what you think <:
> 
> come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/moon_froggo), or check out the fic graphic [here](https://twitter.com/moon_froggo/status/1366212345630892034) too!


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